


That black-clad soldier

by LadyInfierno



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Battle Of Waterloo, M/M, Mostly is England daydreaming, Not Really Historical, PrUK Secret Santa 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 16:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9245204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyInfierno/pseuds/LadyInfierno
Summary: Everything about that soldier reminded him of the battlefield, except his black uniform; that made him wonder about everything else.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rikujo (helphiddlestoned)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helphiddlestoned/gifts).



> This is for the lovely Amalie! Thank you for waiting until now! I misunderstood one of your prompts (apparently a 'meet-up' isn't a first encounter) and had to start over again :Dc  
> I really liked the Waterloo one, so I hope you like this as well!  
> Have a happy first-week-of New Year!

Black.

Usually it was blue. Fierce, powerful Prussian blue, all arrogance and pride. Brilliant and full of life, of challenge. Of that bloody annoying self-confidence he _knew_ where it came from.

Blue that painted in crimson as the swords cut the flesh, as the bullets went through his body. A reminiscence of the very eyes of the one wearing blue, tinted red.

In retrospective, he also liked red.

Red like the roses he loved, red like the blood of his enemies. Red like the eyes full of wild passion and blood thirst, that not once had failed to cause a tremor up his spine.

He _really_ liked red.

But he preferred black.

The battlefield was always a sheer mess, no matter how organized the strategy in paper or words was, how perfectly built the rows of cavalry, infantry or artillery were; as the first shout was out the marshal’s throat, all hell broke loose.

At least, for everyone involved, except _that_ one special detachment.

_Totenkopf-Husaren_

He couldn’t care less how other countries managed to bring their army to the battlefield without hurting themselves. No, that wasn’t any grudge talking. But if there was something Arthur Kirkland would always hold in esteem, it was efficiency.

 Being on time, knowing what to do, _when_ to do it, skipping all the unnecessary self-glorification even his own men indulged in. That selfish, arrogant bastard didn’t. Oh, the irony.

“Sir, he’s here.”

He didn’t need to answer to that, it was even kind of a surprise the poor boy managed to notify him, before his visitor barged in. Ah… it must had to do with the still fresh wounds. He smiled internally at the thought of the “mighty” Prussian limping, ignoring the way he had to bend a little at the waist to keep himself from groaning in pain.

Being a country didn’t mean the stabbing and shooting was painless. It took a toll on their bodies, it just tended to heal faster, depending on the status of the nation itself. This time a subtle laugh escaped before he could do anything about it; imagining _France’s_ condition, now that the war was getting to its end, was just too amusing right now.

“I’ve always loved that laugh.”

There it was, the raspy, cynical voice he knew too well. A lot of arguments and shouting matches burned in his mind, and lustful whispers engraved in his skin. The last part was ignored by both parties to maintain certain… diplomacy.

Then he turned, and every thought became _black_.

Oh.

_Oh._

“Sneaky bastard.”

The boisterous laugh filling the room was also quite well known by him, just as the well-fitting uniform. Clean, ironed, albeit a bit damaged. It was the very same uniform he had during the battle, the one that struck fear into the enemy at first sight, and sometimes the ally alike.

The one that sent shivers down his spine, for a reason _completely_ different to fear.

Oh, how he liked black.

The Prussian man was already walking around the room, and he took great pleasure noticing that, although not limping, the pace was deliberately slower and lighter than usual. An almost shredded leg and that was the only thing the other’s great pride allowed. He couldn’t help the corners of his mouth curling up, but managed to turn it into a sarcastic smirk.

A heavy silence fell upon them. Their silences were always heavy, charged in so many emotions it was easy turning their encounters into fist fights, heated “philosophical” discussions or their own personal war that nobody outside them would call sex.

His fingers twitched, as if asking to touch the offending fabric already. The black-clad man stopped in front of a painting, well aware of the green eyes on him, and Arthur briefly wondered if among all the colours he seemed to like, white was one of them.

It wasn’t a particularly outstanding colour, it didn’t trigger those heavy emotions in him. It wasn’t black.

“You’re thinking too much.”

Maybe he was.

“I’m just wondering when are you going to tell me the intention of your visit, so you can leave.”

A snicker, and the broad chest covered in medals was now turned to him.

“You know _full well_ the ‘intention of my visit’, my friend.”

“Now we’re friends.”

“Anyone willing to beat Francis’ ass like that is my friend.”

“Austria was out there too.”

“Anyone but him.”

“What about Russia?”

“You’re avoiding the topic.”

The distance between them was getting shorter. Britain standing his ground, defending. Prussia advancing cautious but unrelenting, straight to where he wanted. He wondered if every now and then his companion just charged into battle without reasoning.

“And said topic is…?”

“Your almost incontrollable desire to rip my uniform apart.”

But that wouldn’t be like him. Only an idiot went to war without strategy.

He indulged his companion with a smile, the kind of cruel grin most countries had learnt to despise. Prussia was captivated by it.

Apparently both of them could read the other very well, so he didn’t mind that his fascination with the colour black was so evident. Not when those fiery red eyes where focused on him, and _only_ him, with the same determination with which he entered the battlefield.

It made him feel both at stake and on the verge of winning a war. This war they had going on since who knows when. Maybe even before they knew each other.

“You wish, _Beilschmidt_.”

But he had an act to uphold, so he brushed off the direct and shameless invitation and rounded the desk between them. He knew that the red eyes were drinking in the way his body was half a centimetre doubled to the side, but no comment was made, and soon he was face to face with the other man.

They weren’t friends, weren’t lovers, not in the whole meaning of the word, and weren’t allies, they just had interests in common to join a war on the same side. But there was _something_ between them. Something so strong not even they could pull apart if they wanted.

They definitely didn’t want to.

And it was kind of magic, because nobody outside them could see it.

That’s why France had thought they were already detached; the differences too many, the need of glory too strong, and didn’t see the storm that was coming, didn’t think the Prussian army would reach the British in Waterloo.

But they did.

And they won.

The reminder of their still fresh victory was the perfect excuse to himself, to let himself drown in white and red.

“Did I tell you I _really_ like the colour black?”

Again, his companion snickered, a hissing sound he somewhat found endearing, but mostly annoying. The other man bent a little, just enough to reach his ear.

“You say it every time.”

He just grinned.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Time for a little bit of History!  
> The Totenkopf-Husaren, or Death's Head's Hussars, was the First Life Hussar Regimen among the cavalry, they were feared not only for their skills, but their inexhaustible spirit. They "participated in many bold actions, went through the most difficult situations, and they also skirmished, scouted and pursued the enemy".  
> Their badge was a skull and crossbones, real tough, dude. Also, their uniform was the most expensive one, so it was a lady catcher.  
> Waterloo was the decisive battle to beat Napoleon's arse, and one of his troop's failures, was to think that Britain and Prussia were already divided, and that they could take the British before having to face the Prussians. When they realized their mistake, the Prussians were already there to kick their arses.  
> It took only one month after this for Napoleon to surrender.  
> I love the fact that I practically memorized this whole battle just to write about Prussia's uniform. (?)


End file.
